


Promises

by temporalDecay



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fics [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, First Time, Hermaphroditic Trolls, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being you is hard, and the only one who understands is dead and promised you a next time even though you managed to do absolutely jackshit beyond ruining her pants and acting like a sack of rocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpiralCadence @ tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SpiralCadence+%40+tumblr).



Searching for someone in a dreambubble is a rightful pain in the ass and half the time you don’t even know why the fuck you bother. (This is a lie and you know it. You bother because when all is said and done, you like Meenah a lot more than you ever thought you would. There’s always something to talk about, something to discuss. It’s strangely comforting and you don’t know how you’re supposed to feel about it because you _like_ it.) You wade through the bubbles, looking for water or gold or both, as you’ve grown used to the patterns and twists that usually curl around her all the time. All ghosts have patterns of their own, but water and gold is the only one you’ve really memorized the feel of, and you wonder absently if you should feel bad about that. 

You walk out of a field of moss into the sandy shores of a lake or an ocean, who the fuck knows, and you think she’s there, somewhere, because there are golden swirls in the sand, shifting with each sway of the waves. There are lily pads floating at jumping distance from the shore, and you’re pretty sure that’s not how lily pads work, but you’re literally touring the afterlife looking for the ghost of the Empress' alternate self, so what the hell. You’re so far past caring about how things are supposed to work it’s not even funny anymore. You hop onto the closest lily pad, holding your breath as you wait for it to sink, but it stays afloat. You gaze at the water mirror carefully, before jumping further until you reach the last of the lily pad stands. If you fell into the water, you’d drown, but you’re asleep so all that would happen is that you’d wake up. You see something shifting in the corner of your eye, and even as you try to be exasperated, your lips twitch into a smile. 

“This is so fucking not funny, Peixes,” you grunt, glaring at the deceptively calm water all around you. “It’s the fucking antithesis of funny. This is what happens when you fist-fuck funny until all that’s left is stale, lifeless, unfunny grit in your hands and an awkward mess to explain to your fucking lusus and holy shit that went gross fast.” You shake your head and glower at the water, giving it a grade-A glower that would make most plant-life wilt by the sheer power of your gloweringness. “Are you even fucking listening to me?” The water remains ominously quiet. “Oh for fuck’s sake, fine, you asked for it!” You clear your throat and shift your weight so you’re standing firm on the small lily pad. “Let minnow when you’ve had enough.” Somewhere in the distance, bubbles break the surface. You narrow your eyes. “I mean, the opor-tuna-ty is there,” you squint, turning to face a new patch of bubbles, closer this time. “If shell take it.” 

“Fuuuuck,” Meenah breaks the surface behind you, mouth pulled into a grin full of fangs that you probably shouldn’t find as reassuring as you do. “I could hear you recite ‘em puns for-fucking- _ever_.” 

“Yeah, well, tough fucking luck,” you snort, dropping to sit on the lily pad, facing her with a scowl. “Not here to be your personal entertainment, Peixes.” 

She does this thing, which you’ve always found kind of ridiculous, where she purses her lips and starts glubbing at you, and you imagine if she were underwater she’d be blowing bubbles instead, and you don’t know why, but the idea makes you kind of want to laugh. You don’t though, but you sort of want to. 

“Water you here for, then?” Meenah asks, and then grins like the devil because _didja see what she just did there_? 

You did see and you refuse to acknowledge it because then the puns would only get _worse_. You’re so fucking sick of fish puns. _So_ sick of them. You don’t find them cute or witty or funny. Definitely not endearing. Not one bit. 

“Escaping the clutches of teenage romance melodrama,” you sigh dramatically, resting your elbows on your knees and your chin on your hands as she folds her arms on the side of the lily pad and leans to rest her head on them. 

“You’re fucked, lil’ Vantas, if you’re trying to escape romantic bullshit nonsense _here_.” 

You grimace at her as she laughs, flicking a few drops of water at your face for your trouble. 

“Yeah, well,” you scoff, folding your arms over your chest, “at least it’s not fucking drone season _here_.” 

“Drone season?” Meenah tilts her head to the side, curious. 

“Imperial drones?” You try again, sounding sarcastic and annoyed to try and mask the ever present hint of fear whenever you breech the subject. She just continues to stare at you, eyes milky-white and empty. Something inside you drops. “…fuck you, Peixes. You didn’t have drones. Fuck you, fuck you _all_.” 

You throw yourself into the water, before she can grab you, and make yourself wake up. Next time you fall asleep, though, she’s waiting for you there. She picks a fight, and you know she’s picking a fight, but you’re so tightly wound you don’t care she’s purposely picking a fight. You yell and rant and snap and your sickles slide against her trident more than once. You moan when she pins you down, and then you yell some more when she taunts you about it. You’re caught in the middle of a fucking hormone cycle, what the fuck can you do? Just another aspect of your body you have no goddamn control over, another thing you knew to dread the moment you learned about it. 

There’s nothing pleasant about puberty in Alternia. There’s nothing amusing about bodies starting to get into the swing of sexual maturity, spending entire seasons feeling out of sorts without really knowing why, because the instinct’s there but your body’s not quite ready to cash in on it. And of course, everyone knows that sooner or later the drones come. You hit your first mock-season before you started playing the game, and now that you’re on it again… what do you care, the drones are gone. Your quadrants are gone. Everything’s fucked up and painful and uncomfortable, and all you want is to lash out. 

“Less teeth, Karpkat,” Meenah purrs into your mouth, and you’re not sure how you went from having a very therapeutic brawl to making out with her, but she’s got a hand on your ass and you’re disturbingly okay with that. “You ain’t gonna play black with me, nubbyhorns.” 

“Call me that again and I will _end_ you,” you hiss, arching up into her. She’s tall and willowy, arms and legs longer than yours, and it’s a little awkward but you don’t really mind. 

“ _Karpkat~_ ” 

She purrs, all smug smirk and sharp fangs, and you want to end her, you really do, because your ears are burning so hot you’re sure they’re probably glowing scarlet. But she has a hand on your butt, which she’s using to pull you close, make you arch off the ground and grind into her, and every single nerve in your spine twists and coils and _begs_. You let out a sound of frustration in the back of your throat, hands clenched tight and digging your nails into your palms. 

“Relax,” she says, still with one arm half around you, one hand holding onto your butt like it’s her fucking property and you don’t know how you feel about that, except you don’t want it to stop. Then she rolls back, using her feet and her knees and the hand not holding onto your butt, and you think you kind of recognize the move, from your little spars, except now she’s sitting back and you’re sprawled in her lap and your face is pressed right between her— “Likin’ the view, lil’ Vantas?” 

You make that sound in your throat again, which rises in pitch and volume when the hand on your butt _kneads_. You feel her giggle more than hear her, pressed against the crown of your head, dangerously close to the base of a horn. She tells you to touch, still giggling at your reaction, but then she _bites_ that horn and you swear you can feel your pan shutting down. Everything slows down until the only thing you can hear is the echo of your bloodpusher trying its damn hardest to claw its way through your ribs, and the only thing you can feel is the wet pulse between your legs. She’s done with your clothes, by the time you manage to fill up your airsacks properly again, and that’s not helping you fight the sheer intensity making the edges of your vision blur. You gasp for breath as she runs her claws down your back and up again. 

“You’re such a fucking pitiful mess, I swear,” and she sounds so amused. Pleased and indulgent and kind, and then she’s holding onto your butt again, so you keen like a wanton fool, writhing and smearing red all over her lap. “Think I’m gonna keep you.” 

Your arms are looped around her, hands clutching to her shoulders as you pant for breath, trying to muster enough air to maybe form words. You’re almost there when you feel a hand sliding between your legs. The sound you make is something you never knew you were even remotely capable of. You feel your bulge thickening inside its sheath, pressing against the thin opening above your nook. You’ve never actually uncoiled your bulge before, you weren’t ready your last cycle. It burns now, making you feel bloated and breathless. You keen when you feel fingers pressing firmly against the slit, tightening your hold on her shoulders as tears start gathering in the corners of your eyes. You whimper as her fingers slide back, tracing along the larger entrance of your nook, so well lubricated you’re dripping red everywhere. And then she drags her fingers back, to where the very tip of your bulge’s slowly pushing its way out. 

“First time’s alwaves a beach,” Meenah muses casually, like you’re talking about the weather and not the fact she’s fingering your junk and helping you ruin her pants. Does it really matter, when she’s already dead? Does this mean anything, since you’re literally just dreaming? You cry out as more of your bulge works its way out, writhing against your skin and recoiling from the roughness of her clothes. Even the lightest touch makes your toes curl, you don’t even want to imagine what it’d feel to slide inside someone’s nook. “It gets better, though.” 

You want to laugh at the idea there’s anything that might be better than this, one hand holding possessively onto your butt and the other fingering the entrance of your nook and using your own lubrication to tease the ridges and bumps along the length of your bulge. There can’t be anything better than this, feeling the skin around your bulge stretching almost painfully to let it through. It’ll kill you. Or wake you up, which at this point would be even worse. You’re an incoherent lump of lust and heat in her lap, her willing plaything. She wraps her hand around your bulge and _pulls_ , and you feel like she’s stealing every bone off your body with every tug. You don’t know if that’s supposed to help speed up your uncoiling or what, but it feels so good you could die. You gurgle incoherently against her collarbone, desperately wishing you could will your body to do something. Anything. You want so bad to return the attention, to make her feel even a shadow of what she’s doing to you. The most you can do is sob against her chest and clutch her shoulders desperately, trying to convey the words lost somewhere in your throat. 

“Let… let me…” You whimper against a collar bone, staring wide-eyed up at her. 

You scream as the hand on your butt finally releases its grip, only so she can slide a finger inside you, as far as it’ll go. You’ve done that, yourself, but your fingers are shorter and thicker and _yours_. Hers is so very much not yours and the way she crooks it inside you makes you feel your pan will melt and drip down your ears any moment now. 

“Next time,” she tells you, smile baring all her teeth. “There’s always next time, lil’ Vantas.” 

You don’t know if it’s the way she squeezes the base of your bulge, or the fact she slides a second finger into you with the same reckless ease as the first, or that your taxed pan finally caught up with the implications behind those words, but you find yourself convulsing in her lap, like a worm on a hook, as pleasure floods every inch of your body and forcibly turns you into a mindless, weightless wreck. You wake up when she bites your throat with enough teeth to tear it off if you weren’t just a dream, and you pick up the echo of your own scream bouncing off the walls. Your pants are drenched and tight around your newly uncoiled bulge, and you stare down at yourself and your first ever release of genetic material. 

You feel empty and raw, and there’s a strange discord between what your mind says you should feel and what your actual body feels. You lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling and wondering if you should try going back to sleep or just clean up and try to hunt down Gamzee. Your hormones are still out of control and you have no fucking idea what the hell your feelings are doing. And of course, your quadrants are a fucked up mess. Big surprise. 

Being you is hard, and the only one who understands is dead and promised you a next time even though you managed to do absolutely jackshit beyond ruining her pants and acting like a sack of rocks. 

Next time, you think, carefully peeling the ruined pants off your skin and lying back down. Next time. You finger your bulge, still fully extended, and promise yourself next time will be nothing short of _mind-blowing_. 

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't originally porn, but then it decided it wanted to be. I've said it before and I'll say it again, fish puns are _hard_.


End file.
